Literary Endeavors
by Kerowyn
Summary: An odd little ficlet. The parallel between our heros and The Three Musketeers is easy to see, but it's never been shown quite like this.


Author's Note: This is an odd little one-shot. I'm not entirely sure what possessed me to write this, but there you are.

The usual disclaimers apply: Harry and Company belong to the great Ms. Rowlings. The Three Musketeers was written by Mr. Dumas. I don't know who owns the rights now, but it sure ain't me.

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    There was a rushing noise and a painful flash of light. It was sort of a greenish- purple.

    Hermione opened her eyes. There seemed to be an awful lot of fog. She took a few steps forward; feet not touching the ground because there was no ground to touch.

    "Hello?" The words fell heavily into the air, deadened by the fog. She continued walking forward. There didn't seem to be much else to do.

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    "What happened to her?"

    "Nothing, as far as I can tell."

    "Nothing ! Why won't she wake up?"

    "Steady, Ron."

    "No! What's wrong with her?"

    "I do not know what is wrong with Miss Granger, _yet_. However, if there is anything to be found, I will find it."

    "Thank you Madam Pomfrey. I have every confidence in your judgment. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, may I see you out in the hall?"

    Harry and Ron followed Professor Dumbledore into the corridor. Harry found himself staring at the floor, too stunned to think of anything to say.

    "I am afraid you aren't going to like this," Dumbledore said before Ron could get started again, "but I am going to have to ask the both of you to stay in the Gryffindor common room when you are not in classes."

    "But why? What's going on?" Ron said desperately.

    "It's Voldemort." Harry heard himself say. "He's done something. Hasn't He? And it's not safe to be alone, like Hermione was in the library."

    Dumbledore waited a long moment before answering.

    "Yes. I do not know how or why yet, but He had forced her into a kind of trance. Not even Hogwarts is safe anymore." He sighed heavily, looking off into the middle distance. He seemed to be lost in thought. Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

    "Um. Sir?"

    "What? Oh, yes Mr. Weasley?"

    "What do we do now?"

    There was another long pause, this time as Dumbledore carefully scrutinized the both of them.

    "You play chess Mr. Weasley? Then you know that sometimes the best response to an attack is to retreat." Dumbledore's voice became brisk, as if this was all part of the normal business of running a school. He ushered them back into the ward.

    "Sir? Can't we do anything? I mean wouldn't we just be in the way around here?" Harry asked. He could feel a hot ball of anger growing. He couldn't just sit around while Voldemort attacked his best friends.

    "Harry. You must stay out of this. I know your instinct is to take action, but you must wait. I fear there will be plenty of fighting before the end." Harry took one look at the expression on Dumbledore's face and swallowed his objections. It was the saddest smile he'd ever seen.

    "Yes sir."

    But as he left the room, Harry heard him mutter to himself, "So young."

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    There were endless amounts of fog. Hermione had stopped walking and started thinking. It was hard though. Everything seemed like a dream and that included her thoughts. They were fuzzy and disjointed, bouncing from one idea to the next.

    This place wasn't real. She was sure of that. She was sitting cross-legged, but she wasn't sitting _on_ anything. It was a dream. A rather boring dream at that. The Aboriginal peoples of Australia believe that this world grew out of the dream world and that when we dream we return to the dawn of time. Hermione would have expected vast forests and seas. Though a formless mist made a sort of sense.

    But if she was aware she was dreaming, it should be called lucid dreaming. But in lucid dreams she should be able to control events. She'd tried conjuring a broomstick so she could fly instead of walking, but nothing happened. So, maybe she wasn't in a dream.

    Not a dream, not reality, not consciousness. That narrowed it down a lot. But what did it narrow down to?

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    Harry felt like time had stopped. Madam Pomfrey occasionally peeked in to check on them, but otherwise there was nothing to break the monotony. There were no classes to go to because of Easter holidays, and a freak storm had destroyed the Quidditch stadium and practises were off until it could be rebuilt. Besides hanging about in the common room, that was all he did.

    Conversations with Ron had lost all appeal too. They always turned toward Voldemort and the Death Eaters and they both wound up more depressed than before.

    "What do Muggles do?" Ron asked suddenly. "About comas I mean."

    Harry stopped staring at the pictures in _Flying With the Cannons_ and thought. All he knew was what he learned from watching television.

    "I don't know. I think they just kind of wait around."

    "Like this."

    "Yeah. Hang on," Harry said, remembering suddenly, "I did see this show once. The girl came out of a coma because a guy read her favourite poem or something like that." Harry didn't mention that he saw it on one of the daytime soaps and that it probably wasn't very accurate.

    "Hey, that might work. What's Hermione's favourite poem?"

    "How should I know?"

    "Knowing her it's probably fifty pages long. Maybe she's got some books in her trunk." Ron said. They both looked Hermione's trunk, stuffed under a neighbouring bed. It was twice as heavy as Ron's or Harry's trunk. Dumbledore had the trunks quietly sent up to the hospital wing when it became apparent neither Ron nor Harry would be moving from Hermione's bedside.

    "Maybe?"

    "Look and see."

    "You look and see." Neither of them made a move toward the trunk.

    Finally Harry said, "I won't tell her if you don't."

    "Deal."

    The books were at the top, piled on top of her sweaters. Ron whistled softly.

    "Look at how thick some of these are. This one's got to be four inches." He hefted out an edition called _Magic Numbers: A Complete Study of Arthimancy, including Charts and Equations_.

    "Does she have anything that isn't a textbook?" Harry asked.

    "Yeah, she's got a lot of notebooks too. Hey, maybe this." Ron pulled out a beaten paperback novel. The spine was covered in Scotch tape and Spellotape and many of the pages were dog-eared.

    "_The Three Musketeers_." Ron read aloud. "Looks like she's read it about fifty times."

    Harry remembered _The Three Musketeers_. He'd read it in English the last year he went to Muggle school. Well, most of it. At least some of it. Ron flipped through the first few pages, reading bits and pieces.

    "It looks a bit thick," Ron said. "Just Hermione's type of book."

    "It's a historical romance," Harry said, trying to remember his class notes. "Most everything that Dumas wrote was like that."

    "Ugh. Romance." Ron said and made to put the book back.

    "No, not that sort of romance. It's a style of narrative that tells of the adventures and heroic exploits of chivalric heroes against a fanciful backdrop." Ron looked askance at him. Harry was surprised that he still remembered that.

    "It's as good as anything else I suppose."

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    The fog was also starting to roll back. There was still nothing, but it was a more definite sort of nothing, which was rather more worrying than the misty sort of nothing earlier.

    Hermione had settled on the theory that she was hallucinating. The dancing pink elephants that had been though earlier rather supported that. And for some reason a hydrophobic kappa kept pattering through, muttering to itself in a distracted sort of way. Something keep tugging at the corners of her vision, as if the background was trying to sneak in, hoping that she wouldn't notice it had been gone all along.

    She supposed that she could be going mad. But if she was going crazy then she wouldn't think about going crazy. But mad people usually thought they were sane, so she could be crazy thinking she was sane and thinking about going crazy. This chain of logic was about to drive her round the twist, if she had not in fact gone round already.

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    "'_He did not wear the uniform cloak--which was not obligatory at that epoch of less liberty but more independence...'"_

    Harry didn't notice the Grangers standing in the doorway until Ron kicked him in the leg. He was reading the scene in which Porthos was introduced and had been totally engrossed. Harry and Ron were taking turns, reading aloud, but so far Hermione showed no change. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were framed in the doorway; Mrs. Granger was smiling sadly. Suddenly Harry realized that he didn't really know much about Hermione's parents.

    "That's her favourite book you know." She said. "But you two must be Harry and Ron. We met a few years ago in Diagon Alley but we really didn't get much of an opportunity to talk. Hermione is just having a fantastic time at Hogwarts. It was such a surprise to all of us, but it certainly explained a few things."

    Harry was instantly reminded of his first meeting with Hermione.

    "Professor Dumbledore told us about everything." Mr. Granger said. "It's so good of you two to spend your Easter holidays with her."

    Harry started to ask what they were talking about, but Ron kicked him again. Harry tried to count the days in his head. Hermione had collapsed the week before Easter, but a week couldn't have gone by already. Could it?

    "...asked me to bring this down to you." Mrs. Granger was saying, rummaging through her handbag. "I know Hermione would just hate to think that she was causing you to miss schoolwork."

    She handed them a sheaf of parchment. There was a rather sharp note from Professor McGonagall saying that if they were unable to attend classes, they might be interested in completing a small potion of the homework.

    "Er. Thanks."

    After Hermione's parents had left, Ron started to grumble.

    "Homework. Leave it to McGonagall to think of sending homework."

    "Maybe we should start reading assignments at Hermione."

    "Yeah, that'll bring her around in five minutes."

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    It seemed that the laws of physics had given Hermione a temporary leave of absence. Things made sense here, but only the sort of sense that she imposed on them.

    The sheer nothingness had been putting her edge and she said aloud, with absolute conviction "There ought to be a floor," and suddenly her feet hit something solid. It had surprised her so that she nearly fell over.

    The walls were coming in of their own accord. Not with any definite detail, like doors or paint, but with a definite impression of wall-ishness.

    It was a start.

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    Harry was becoming engrossed in the story, despite himself. It certainly was a jolt to look up from the end of a chapter and realize that an hour had gone by. Time no longer inched by.

    Still. Four days. It had been four days since they had found Hermione unconscious over a book in the library. Madam Pomfrey and the rest of her staff were working constantly, and every new failure only made them more determined. Not even Mandrake root potion had any effect.

    Ron was staring at the pages of _Hexes, Curses and Conundrums: A Magical Guide to Medical Mysteries_. He hadn't turned the page in forty minutes.

    "Here, you take a turn." Harry said, handing the book over to Ron.

    "Okay." They traded books and Ron began reading aloud.

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    There were voices somewhere. The laws of sound were similarly absent. Sentences drifted through the air like multi-coloured streamers, passing like smoke through the increasingly solid walls and floor. The words were blurred, as if someone had smeared fresh ink and the air was filled with a soft susurration, like a thousand people talking quietly.

    Hermione was watching a paragraph twisting itself into knots, trying to puzzle out the meaning when a shimmering purple ribbon glided through her hand. The words exploded inside her head without stopping at her ears first.

    "'..._d'Artagnan remarked something perfidiously significant in the play of the wrinkled features of his countenance. A rogue does not laugh in the same way that an honest man does; a hypocrite does not shed the tears of a man of good faith. All falsehood is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face.' "_

    Hermione numbly watched the purple streamer twist away. Ron's voice was even, as if he was reading a passage in class. But Hermione _felt_ the worry, the fear, the exhaustion as clearly as if there had been a footnote.

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    " '..._it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him. His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love!_' " Ron snapped the book shut, careful to leave a book mark.

    "I thought you said this wasn't a romance." Ron said accusingly. Harry shrugged.

    "I didn't get very far when I read it at school." He'd been too preoccupied. Summer holidays had been coming up, and Harry was thinking of ways to avoid Dudley and his gang. "Anyways, there's always a romance of some kind. This one just has a lot of sword fights too."

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_    "I have induced you to take a charming promenade; here is a delicious breakfast; and yonder are five hundred persons, as you may see through the loopholes, taking us for heroes or madmen--two classes of imbeciles greatly resembling each other."_

    Nothingness was becoming awfully crowded. Hermione was entranced by the strange word ribbons. They appeared from nowhere, drifted past and disappeared into the distance. No matter how far she walked, the point of origin always got further away.

    New...things were appearing. They snaked through the air, much like the word-ribbons but they were a uniform colour of dull, sickly yellow. Hermione, out of curiosity, had tried to touch one. Even just standing near them, she could feel waves of cold emanating from them, but when she let one pass through her hand, she got a nasty shock, like a miniature lightning bolt.

    They also acted like predators. Two or three would wrap themselves around the word ribbons and pull it to shreds, leaving the pieces to melt into smoke. Hermione didn't know what they were, but she was fairly certain they were related to whatever was keeping her here.

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    "_Besides we feel always a sort of mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they suppose_."

    "I expect you don't want to hear this, but you make a rather picturesque scene." Dumbledore said. Harry started awake. He was sitting on the floor against the foot of Hermione's bed. Ron had also nodded off, with the book on his lap and his feet on the bed.

    "I'm glad to see you are doing well." Dumbledore found himself a chair as Harry struggled to his feet.

    "What is it, sir?" Harry asked, wondering how long he'd been asleep. Ron snored softly.

    "Madam Pomfrey believes I shouldn't worry you with talk of Voldemort, but I'm sure you'll feel better for knowing what is happening."

    "There is a specialized branch of magic called Oneiromancy. Simply stated, it is magic involving sleep and dreams. Very few wizards can manage Oneiromancy because it requires complete control of one's own mind. When Hermione fell asleep in the library, her consciousness was locked out of her body, rather like a locked room." Harry had a sudden mental image of Hermione trying to open a locked door.

    "So how do we wake her up?"

    "Madam Pomfrey is working on the necessary spell. It will remove the barrier that is keeping Miss Granger unconscious. But, to extend the metaphor, it will be up to her to open the door."

    "So there's still nothing we can do." Harry hung his head. He felt so ineffectual just sitting here.

    "Nothing more than you are doing now." Dumbledore replied. "I must say I am glad you hit upon the idea of reading on your own."

    Harry just nodded, not wanting to admit to watching the muggle soaps.

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    "_They were parting to meet again when it pleased God, and if it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat riotous, as may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is only to be combated by extreme carelessness_."

    Hermione had stopped looking for the source of the mysterious word-ribbons. They simply came from everywhere. The predator ribbons were no longer around. Hermione had been getting a bit worried about them

    With every step the nothingness became more defined. Walls, a floor and a ceiling were now clearly extant. Dim ambient light seemed to emante from the walls, but there was clearly a bright, steady light in the distance ahead of her. Hermione had been rather worried about walking towards the light, but her practical side quashed those fears. She wasn't about to be afraid of an urban legend.

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    " '_Accordingly, that same evening d'Artagnan repaired to the quarters of Athos, whom he found in a fair way to empty a bottle of Spanish wine—an occupation which he religiously accomplished every night.' "_

    Hermione woke slowly, with Ron's words echoing in her head. Her entire body felt heavy; it was an effort simply to open her eyes. Ron was sitting at the end of her bed, his feet propped up on the edge. He was nose-deep in the battered paperback. Harry was stretched out on the bed, next to her, staring at the ceiling. Neither noticed her return to consciousness. Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated on the words.

    Ron was a natural reader. Perfect intonation, natural pauses and above all a rich sonorous voice. Hermione wondered why she had never noticed that before. Probably because she never heard him read aloud before.

_    " 'You are young,' replied Athos; 'and your bitter recollections have time to change themselves into sweet remembrances.' "_

    "I love that part." Hermione said wistfully. Harry sat bolt upright; Ron nearly fell out of his chair.

    "Hermione!"

    "You're awake. Should I get Madam Pomfrey?" Ron scrambled upright and was about to run for the door before Hermione stopped him.

    "I'm okay. Really. I just need a moment." Hermione sat up slowly, making a mental checklist, but everything seemed to be in working order.

    "Where did you get that book?" She asked.

    "Erm. We found it in your book bag." Ron said, thinking fast. Hermione looked suspicious but let it go.

    "I started reading it over summer holidays and I brought it along to Hogwarts to finish. It's so wonderfully complex, but it's also so straightforward. Dumas is an excellent storyteller."

    She opened to the back of the book and glanced over the last few pages. "He certainly has a way with epigraphs."

    "What day is it?" She asked suddenly. Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

    "Er, Tuesday." Harry answered. Hermione frowned at him.

    "What is the date?" She asked sharply.

    "April 6th." Ron answered, bracing for the inevitable explosion.

    "WHAT!?"

    "Take it easy Hermione! Madam Pomfrey will chuck us out!"

    "I was out for almost two weeks?"

    "Uh. Yes. But part of it was Easter holidays."

    "But what about all my work? I'll be so far behind in all the classes. How will I ever catch up?"

    "I think the professors will give you some time to make it up Hermione." Harry said, a little more sarcastically than he meant to. Hermione started to answer back, but abruptly checked herself. Instead she sat back in bed, staring at the cover of her book.

    "You're right Harry." She said finally.

    "I am?"

    "School work isn't everything."

    "It isn't?" Ron said, slightly baffled. "You sure you're alright?"

    "Yes." Hermione said, smiling faintly, knowing it was a silly thing to say. "After all, we are young."

FIN

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Well. That was interesting. What do you think? Questions, comments and criticism are all welcome.

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


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